


Want

by faithlessone



Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [17]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Kinda, Smut, actual for real smut, i've never posted any before, please be nice!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:29:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26534392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithlessone/pseuds/faithlessone
Summary: Brennan and Cassandra return to Skyhold after the events at the Winter Palace, to news that Cassandra is up for election as the Divine. Miscommunication ensues...
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast
Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756030
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	Want

**Author's Note:**

> (I was literally turning my light off to go to sleep when I realised it was Friday and I hadn't posted this! Couldn't do that. Apologies that it's a few hours late!!)

The air changes when they return from Halamshiral. 

They’ve barely dismounted in Skyhold when the Revered Mother arrives, bringing news that she and Leliana are candidates to be the next Divine. It is not… unexpected, especially given the circumstances, the success of the Inquisition, but it does complicate the situation somewhat. 

On the journey home, she had been so… _happy_. Stealing moments with Brennan, sitting beside him at the campfire, riding alongside him. His words on the balcony of the Winter Palace were never far from her mind. The fact he had all but proposed to her. That he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, no matter what happens to them. That he wanted to take their relationship further. 

Now, though… 

Mother Giselle talks at her for almost an hour before he comes to find her. Her arguments are… convincing. A year ago, even a month ago, she might have agreed. Might have petitioned the Inquisitor to actively support her claim. She thinks she could have been well-suited to the position. Been able to make a difference to the Chantry. Steered them on a course towards the Maker’s work, just as she is intending to do with the Seekers. With the power of the Sunburst Throne behind her, she could command real change.

But that was before… 

If she becomes Divine, she cannot be with the man she loves. 

It’s a simple fact. 

Mother Giselle leaves, and he steps up to her side. They haven’t spoken since they returned to Skyhold, and the news broke. She hasn’t been avoiding him, and she assumes he hasn’t been avoiding her, but… it too is a simple fact. They are both such busy people. 

“The fun never ends in Skyhold, does it?” 

Maker bless him for trying to make her smile. Just as he always does. 

“’The Inquisitor was _hilarious_.’ That’s what they’ll say one day, you watch,” she tells him. 

He smiles back at her. “If that’s the worst thing they can think of, I will consider it a triumph.” 

They must address it, and it seems like she must be the one to bring it up, so she does. 

“I assume… you have heard that Leliana and I are both candidates to be the next Divine. Because of what happened at Halamshiral, of course. The Empire favours you, thus, everyone close to you. So now the Chantry bandies our names about without even asking us first.” 

“Oh, so, _you_ did not…”

She frowns for a moment before she gleans his meaning. He thought that they had put their own names forward. That she _wants_ to be considered for the election. 

“This is the first I have heard of it.” 

He searches her face, his hand twitching at his side as if he longs to reach out and touch her, and refuses to let himself. It is not a new tic, she realises, recognising it. A relic from the days before he was allowed to touch her. He sees her looking, and clasps his hands behind his back. 

“For what it’s worth, I think you’d make an excellent Divine.” 

Is he saying this because he believes it, or because he believes it is what she wants to hear? Either way, she can’t decide if she is pleased to have his support, or heartbroken that he would let her go so easily. He must… he must understand what this means for them. 

It is usually his job to break the tension with a joke, but this time it is up to her. 

“Truly? I never look good in hats.” 

He smiles at her, but there is something… restrained about it. Consciously polite, the way he has not been with her in… She cannot even remember how long. She _hates_ it. 

The flames of the armoury, the sound of the blacksmiths beating the iron, are usually comforting to her. They have often been the background to long hours of reading, to naps snatched after heavy drills when she has been kept awake the night before. But now they are stifling. She turns quickly, heading for the open door and the fresh air. 

He follows. 

“Cassandra?” 

She doesn’t stop until she gets to the training dummies. For a moment, she thinks about picking up the practice sword propped against them, and swinging it until her mind clears, but… he’s still here. Still waiting for her to… what? Tell him that she wants to be Divine? Tell him that what they have is more important? 

She doesn’t _know_. 

“Surely, it was never meant to be like this.” 

“Like what?” 

She turns to look at him. He’s five steps away, out of reach, hands still clasped behind his back. Closed off, but, watching her. Waiting. Patient. 

“The Chantry,” she covers, because it might be cowardly, but she doesn’t have the words for the truth, and if they are to break each other’s hearts, she would rather not do it while she is still unsure. “The Circle of Magi. The templars. This cannot be what they intended when it all began. The Chantry should provide faith. _Hope_. Instead, it cannot veer from its course, even in the face of certain death.” 

“I’m surprised to hear you, of all people, say that.” 

He probably means it kindly, but the mood she’s in, she cannot help her blood rising. 

“Oh? Am I not the same woman who declared the Inquisition against the Chantry’s wishes? In all my years as a Seeker, I did what I was told. My faith demanded it. But now my faith demands something else: that I see with better eyes.” 

He nods. “Many extraordinary things have happened to get us to this point.” 

“I am not so certain. I think it has been a long time coming. Did you know Varric is Andrastian? Oh, he blasphemes with every second breath, but deep down, he believes. His heart is virtuous. But he would never step foot in a Chantry. It should be the first place to which the virtuous turn. It needs to change. Perhaps _I_ must be the one to change it.” 

He nods again, but this time, she can see the tension in his shoulders, in his jaw. 

“Your determination is admirable.” 

“Some men would call it an unattractive trait.” 

“I’m… not those men.” There is a hitch in his voice, and it pains her. 

“Truer words have not been spoken.” 

“I have… influence. I can use it to help the Chantry make up its mind.” 

Her throat hurts, choking back words she cannot seem to say. How did they get to this point? How did she let him become so convinced that this is what she wants? If this even _is_ what she wants. 

What she _wants_ is for him to fight for her, but she knows he won’t. 

Not because he doesn’t want her. The way he has to hold himself back, yet keeps his gaze steady on her own, tells her that. The set in his mouth, the gentle compliment, the tentative way he offers his support. 

No, he won’t fight for her because he would never stand in her way. Never push her. He has said his piece, made his feelings for her abundantly clear, but he would never demand she feel the same way. He would rather shoulder his love for her as yet another unrequited burden than be the reason she could not fulfil her dream. 

She knows all of this, and yet, still, she cannot make herself tell him that she would rather have him than the Sunburst Throne. 

Is that terrible? 

It feels terrible. 

“I cannot ask you to do that.” 

He smiles, and it’s tight and sad and sorry, and it _hurts_. “You don’t have to.” 

“If you think that is the right thing to do, then… thank you,” she tells him, and something dims in his eyes. She falters. “I suppose I should not be so concerned. The clerics speak my name for now, nothing more. For now, restoring order and stopping Corypheus remain our priority.”

He nods again. “Either way, I’m here for you. Always. If you… well. Yes. I have… I’ll be in my quarters. If you need me. Our exploits at the Winter Palace resulted in a lot of… paperwork. I should… Goodbye.” 

The way he stumbles over the words reminds her so deeply of the way he had been when he first joined the Inquisition. There had been whole days when it seemed he couldn’t get a full sentence out in one try. Perhaps that was only with her. 

She can only watch as he takes one hesitant half-step toward her, and then seem to think better of it, sketching a bow and turning to retreat back to the keep. 

Maker, has she ruined this? 

Has she lost him? 

She turns back to the dummies, picking up the practice sword and slashing at one of them. Her arms feel as limp as over-boiled vegetables, and the exertion doesn’t help, but she carries on. Tears prick at her eyes, clouding her vision, but she carries on. 

“Seeker?” 

Whirling around at the interruption, she almost takes Varric’s head off. He stumbles backwards, hands held up in surrender. 

“What do you want?” she asks, and though she tries to keep the bite out of her tone, she is unsuccessful at it. 

“I heard the news and just wanted to see if you were all right.” 

There’s more to it than that, she can see it in his face. He’s an excellent liar, but she has spent too much time with him in the last year and a half for him to adequately hide all his tells. 

She levels the practice sword at him. 

“Fine. Firefly literally tripped over a Comte in his haste to make it to his quarters, and then locked the door. I’d have picked it, but… well, the kid gets little enough privacy as it is. So I figured I’d come check on you instead. What was it? Lovers’ tiff?” 

Her sword is blunted, but made of heavy, decent quality metal. It would leave a good mark if she hit him with it, and she briefly considers doing so. But Varric… Varric likely means well. 

“You heard the news,” she says, lowering the weapon and propping it back against the base of the dummy. “I am requested to attend the conclave of clerics to stand as candidate for Divine.” 

“You’re not actually going though, are you?” He sounds incredulous. 

“Why shouldn’t I? After all this is over.” 

“All this? You mean Corypheus, or…” 

The words he leaves unspoken hang heavily in the air between them. Of all the people in Thedas, of all their friends, she guesses he knows better than most the journey that it has taken them to get to where they are. 

She still remembers, vividly, the look on Varric’s face after the bear attack, back in the early days of their journeying, when Brennan had used his healing magic on her to the point of collapse. The way he had gingerly handed her the cracked, bloody helm, and explained in a terrified whisper that Brennan had used the last of his strength to bring her back from likely death. 

In the snow after the fall of Haven, when she emerged from the tent, Varric had been the one waiting for news. She had forgiven him for leaving Brennan behind. Later, she had found a bottle of strong Nevarran liquor in her pack, and known without a doubt that Varric had put it there. His own way of apologising. 

At Adamant, it had been Varric who told her to chase after Brennan when he fled. Who dealt with Hawke and the Wardens in her place, and then briefed the council so she could sit guard in front of Brennan’s tent while he brooded, lost and alone. 

Varric who had written her a volume of the serial she loved because Brennan asked, Varric who chose books _she_ would enjoy when Brennan asked for them, Varric who offered to fetch Cullen and Leliana to help stand guard outside the balcony so she could have a few uninterrupted moments with Brennan at the palace… 

And now he comes to comfort her. 

“I have been a fool,” she admits, sinking gracelessly down onto the grass. 

“We all do stupid things from time to time,” he promises her, dragging her little stool over and sitting down beside her. “The important thing is what you do next.” 

Next. 

As if she even knows. 

“Seeker, do you _want_ be the Divine?” 

She hangs her head. It’s such a straightforward question, but such a complicated concept. If Justinia had asked, she would have laughed at the very notion. If someone had asked in the wake of her death, she would have been flattered, but dismissed it. And now, now that she has seen the effects of the Chantry, of the Circles, the abuses, the corruption… She could do good, she knows. She could make a difference. 

“It is very simple. The Chantry needs to survive. To do that, it must change. I have never believed in asking another to do what you are unwilling to do yourself. So I look upon this as an opportunity. I owe it to myself and all of Thedas to seek the Sunburst Throne.” 

“That’s bullshit. You know that, right?” 

She looks up at him, outraged. “It is _not_ bullshit!” 

“There are a hundred things you could do to change the Chantry that don’t involve wearing a fancy hat, and you know it. You’re scared, Seeker. That’s why you didn’t answer my question.” 

“I told you-“ 

“I asked you if you _want_ to be Divine,” he interrupts her. “Yes or no?” 

She opens her mouth to answer, and the word sticks in her throat. 

Varric nods, knowingly. “I thought as much. Well, if you’re gonna break the kid’s heart, do it now. Don’t leave him hanging on the line. He’ll wait around for you forever, even if he hates himself for it. I… I should know.” 

Bianca. She didn’t even think… 

“I’m sorry, Varric.” 

“Don’t be sorry. Just do better. Figure this out, or you’ll make both of you miserable.” 

“I don’t… _want_ to break his heart.” 

He reaches out, laying a surprisingly strong hand on her shoulder. “You’ve got two options, Cassandra. Either you pursue the throne, or you don’t. But either way, you’re going to have to pick. Because you can’t have both.” 

“I may not have a choice in the matter, if the Chantry clerics pick another.” 

Varric sighs. “You can’t treat him like a consolation prize, Seeker. It’s a shitty move and you’ll both resent each other for it eventually. If you want to put yourself in line for the throne, you have to give him up, whichever way the axe falls.” 

He’s right, and she knows it. She nods. 

“Think it over. I’ll be in my usual spot if you need a kick.” 

“Thank you, Varric.” 

He gives her shoulder a firm squeeze and then leaves, replacing the stool beside the tree before he goes. 

She remains on the grass, head in hands, trying to picture two futures. 

In one, she’s wearing robes of office, heavy with responsibility. The whole of the Chantry at her fingertips. Giving orders to her own Right and Left Hands, whoever they might be. It’s too much to ask of Leliana to stay with her. Not when he will likely need his council when she is gone. 

In the other, she is travelling through Thedas at his side. Wearing the armour he designed for her. Fixing problems as they find them. Spending every night together. Then, perhaps, one day, a retirement. A cottage, overlooking the sea. Both of them curled up in front of the fire. Together. 

She knows which future she wants, if she’s honest with herself. Which would make her happy, even if it’s by no means guaranteed. Not that either of them are at all guaranteed. 

Is it selfish, to abandon the opportunity in favour of her heart? 

Has she not always prided herself on her selflessness? 

Then she pictures Brennan’s face, the day up on the walkway, when he asked her if she wanted him to court her, and, instinctively, she said ‘no’. She only saw it for the space of a heartbeat before she ran, but it imprinted itself on her mind. The resignation, the dejection. Because he offered himself to her, and she denied him. 

Is self-denial really selflessness? Or is it just fear? 

Varric is right. There are a hundred ways she could help the Chantry, to guide it, without having to don the robes herself. She can still help the Seekers, can still fulfil her duties. It’s not about being unwilling, being unable… 

It’s about letting herself be happy… 

She pushes herself to her feet before she even knows what she’s doing, striding purposefully toward the keep. This is the right decision. 

Varric smiles when he sees her. 

“Hey, Seeker!” 

She almost doesn’t stop, a little worried that if she lets herself overanalyse the situation again, she’s going to change her mind, but he doesn’t stall her. Just hands her a covered tray and a bottle of something. 

“Kid never eats enough. Take this up to him?” 

Nodding, she takes it, and continues on her way. Just as Varric had told her earlier, the inner door of his quarters is locked. 

She knocks. 

“Who’s there?” she hears him call. 

For a moment, her heart leaps. This is a mistake. He told her she’d be an excellent Divine, and she didn’t deny it. She upset him, angered him, and she should not… 

There is the sound of footsteps on the stairs and the door opens. 

“Oh, it’s _you_ ,” he breathes. “I… I was hoping-” He cuts himself off, stepping back so she can move past him and up the stairs before he locks the door again. 

He leaves the key in the lock. 

She doesn’t know why that comforts her. 

“I brought… Varric thought you might need food,” she says, feeling awkward. 

Smiling, he takes the tray and the bottle, setting them down on the small table. “Excuse the mess. I… Well, this is what it looks like when I’m not expecting company.” 

She glances around. Clothes on top of and in front of the dresser, rather than in it, papers and books not only all over the desk but all over the floor around the desk, and an unmade bed. It isn’t the worst she has ever seen. Indeed, it’s rather… endearing. 

He scavenges a couple of cups from a chest, and opens the bottle, pouring a healthy measure into each before handing one to her. 

“Antivan red,” he says, grinning. “Varric knows what I like. Do you? Like it, I mean.” 

She takes a sip. It’s fruitier than the wines she usually enjoys, but by no means bad. A refreshing change. She nods. 

He clears discarded shirts and papers from the other end of the sofa, dumping everything in a pile on top of his already messy desk. 

“Here, sit. Unless… sorry. Did you only want to bring the tray? I won’t… I won’t keep you if you have somewhere else to be. Or if you just… don’t want to be here. I quite understand.” 

Here it is. 

Maker bless him for giving her a way out, but if she wants _this_ , she can’t take it. 

She puts the cup down on the table beside the tray, then takes his from his hand and places it down too. He watches her closely, seemingly terrified that if he blinks, she’ll vanish without a trace. Then, telegraphing her every move, she steps toward him. Close. He smells of storm clouds and dust, of open fields and freedom. She wants to wrap her arms around his neck, but that’s too… aggressive. He has to be able to step away from her if this isn’t what he wants, if he… if he’s changed his mind. Instead she rests one hand lightly on his chest, the other hanging by her side so he can take it if he wants to. She tilts her head up, a little, enough. Enough to look him the eye. 

“I do not _want_ to be the Divine, Brennan,” she says, barely above her breath, but loud enough for him to hear her. “I _want_ to be yours.” 

“Really?”

There is a note of fear in his voice, like she’s going to take it back. She hates that he is right to have that fear, that she has shown him it is more than possible she might, but she is determined. 

“Use your influence with the conclave against me if you can,” she requests. “But even if I am chosen, I will turn them down. I just want-“ 

He closes the gap between them, silencing her with his lips, both arms wrapping around her to pull her firmly against him. She almost sobs. This… this is what she wanted, what she needed. If she had to go her whole life without feeling this again, it would not be life. It would be merely… existence. And a wretched one at that. 

One of his hands slips to the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair and pulling. She opens her mouth in a moan, and he deepens the kiss, pressing into her. 

“Please,” she gasps when he pulls back, snatching a breath. What the ‘please’ is for, she can’t be certain, but he smiles before he kisses her throat, nudging her collar out of the way with his chin so he can mark her again, just as he did at the Winter Palace. 

“I wanted,” he breathes, between the kisses he trails up her throat and jaw, “there to be flowers. And dancing. And more candles. But…” He makes his way to her mouth again and loses himself for a moment against her lips. “Can we do that next time?” 

Pulling back, he waits until she manages to open her eyes. It’s an effort. His pupils are blown wide, his mouth already reddened a little. He was asking her a question, but for the life of her, she can’t remember what it was. She leans her forehead against his, taking a breath. 

“Cassandra?” 

“Hmm?” 

“I wanted to make my… _our_ first time… special. Flowers, dancing, candlelight, but… please? Can we just…” 

She finally understands what he’s saying. 

“You don’t need to-“ 

“I _want_ to,” he interrupts her. “You deserve a romance better than anything you’ve read in your books. Better than fairy tales. Better than-” 

She cuts him off with a kiss. “What I _deserve_ is a man who loves me, and you do, don’t you?” 

“More than anything, I swear.” 

“Then _yes_ , take me to bed.” 

The smile he offers her is wide and bright as the sun at noon, and she melts in front of it. He leans down, hitching one arm around her knees and, quite literally, sweeps her off her feet. She can’t help but let out a little squeal, and he chuckles joyously. 

“I’ve been wanting to do that for… far too long,” he says, adjusting his grip on her slightly and then carrying her over to his bed. 

It’s just as soft as she remembers. Softer, maybe. 

He kisses her again, leaning over her, and then… hesitates. 

“There’s… there’s something I should tell you. Before we… before.” 

Her heart clenches in her chest as he straightens up, gaze slipping away from hers, hands toying uncertainly with the clasps of his tunic. 

“Whatever it is, out with it.” 

“I’ve never… that is to say, my experience is very… limited.” 

She can’t help but smile, reaching out and stilling his fingers. “Brennan, have you never lain with another? Is that what you mean?” 

“It was… The Circle disapproved. The templars, especially. Not that that meant it didn’t happen, just…” 

“Not for you?” 

He shakes his head, still unable to meet her eyes. “It was made clear to me from a very young age what the… consequences could be, for a lady. Particularly for a lady _mage_. I didn’t want to risk… Not unless I was _truly_ in love. And I never was. Not until I met you.” 

“Nothing at all?” 

A flush spreads across his cheeks. “Not… nothing. There were a few girls, who… who gave me instruction. How to… Well. I know how to do a few things. It’s possible I may have gained a bit of a reputation. But never… Never anything that would have _had_ consequences. And certainly nothing at all since I left the Circle.” 

She shuffles to the edge of the bed, and he looks up, eyes wide with alarm. Does he think she’s trying to leave? She closes her hand around his, standing up so she is almost nose to nose with him, and then leans her forehead against his. 

“I’ve been with only one man in my life,” she admits. “A mage, with whom I adventured when I was very young. It was… a short-lived thing. I thought I loved him. Perhaps I did, then. But he returned to the Circle, and I became the Right Hand, and… the matter ended. We did not renew our acquaintance, and there has been no one else since.” 

Pulling back, he frowns slightly. “But… you’re _beautiful_. Strong, clever, powerful, deadly… You’ve travelled all over Thedas…” 

“Few men have seen in me the things _you_ see, my love.” 

He scoffs gently. “Perhaps they just didn’t have the courage to tell you.” 

She decides not to point out that he hadn’t had the courage either. It was likely not a matter of courage, in either case. 

“This is terrible pillow talk,” she points out, softly. “Are you certain you… you are ready?” 

“I want you. Just… you. I thought…” he trails off. “Sorry, more terrible pillow talk. I’ll be quiet, if you wish.” 

She reaches up to cup his cheek in her hand, stroking her thumb across his cheekbone. “Never silence yourself for me. I am glad you told me. If there is anything else you want to say, please, say it.” 

He takes a deep breath, hand covering hers. “I thought I was going to lose you. I wasn’t lying when I said you’d make an excellent Divine. You would. You’re wise and just and you could make a real change…” He lets out an exhale of laughter. “I’m not trying to talk you into it. Maker, it sounds like I _want_ you to leave me. I don’t. All day, I’ve been trying to picture my life without you in it, and… I can’t. If you took the throne, I don’t know what I’d do. Set up the Inquisition anew as your personal taskforce, so I had every excuse to be in your company? Throw myself off the balcony? Accept one of the blasted marriage proposals that Josephine keeps politely declining for me?” 

Everything in her wants to silence him with a reassuring kiss, but she did just tell him to talk to her. Maker, though, the pain in his eyes. 

“Marriage proposals?” 

He laughs again. “They’ve been coming since Haven. More, since I became the Inquisitor. Josephine tells me about them, but I tell her to burn them all. Send apologies first, of course, but burn them nonetheless. I’m… quite a catch, apparently.” 

She smiles. “Have I caught you?” 

“Hook, line and sinker. I never want to be freed.”

Pressing close, she kisses him. He releases her hand, reaching for the clasps on his tunic again, just as she does, their hands tangling. Instead, he reaches for her clothing, but after a few seconds, laughing breathlessly, he pulls back.

“I think we may need to… disrobe ourselves, this time,” he suggests. “Though next time you need to show me how that-“ he gestures expansively at her torso and the cuirass she’s wearing “-all comes off.”

She almost makes a joke about his forwardness, and the promise of a ‘next time’, but she knows as well as he that, Maker willing, this will not be the last time they go to bed. Instead, she nods, fingers instinctively unbuckling and unlacing her clothes while he does the same to his own. 

Finishing a little before him, she sits down on the bed, back against the headboard, watching. He is even more well-formed than she remembers; not that she really let herself look, last time. She pushes _that_ image out of her mind; it has no place in this bed tonight. No, the last few months of fighting and travelling have clearly been good to him. 

He scrambles to remove his smalls, tripping over his own discarded boots in his haste to join her. Laughing, she takes his shaking hand and pulls him onto the bed. 

“Hi,” he greets her, propping himself on his side beside her, eyes firmly on her face. 

“Hi,” she returns, smiling. “You can look, you know. You can even-“ she places the hand she still has hold of onto her bare waist, curving up towards her ribs “-touch.” 

The look in his eyes reminds her of the first time they kissed, wide and incredulous, like he can’t believe his luck. Then something else comes over his expression. Something she usually only sees when they are out in the field, when he is puzzling something out and suddenly finds the solution. 

He leans into her, kissing her deeply as he uses his grip on her waist to pull her body against his, rolling her under him. 

“Beautiful,” he whispers into her neck, trailing kisses downwards. 

“Radiant,” he whispers against her collarbone, hands skimming along her body with the gentlest touch.

She half-wants to tell him that she is not one of his fragile Circle mages, that she will not shatter in his grasp, but when he presses an open-mouthed kiss to her breast, the words die in her throat, replaced by a moan as her eyes slip shut. He chuckles against her skin, his earlier reticence seemingly forgotten. 

Every touch fuels a fire she did not know she contained. Soft sensations sending sparks through her skin. His fingers, his lips, his tongue, his teeth… 

Is this magic? 

Some kind of enchantment that she has never come across before? 

It must be. How else could it feel this good? 

He whispers more words, more compliments perhaps, as he makes his way further down her body, but she barely understands him. All she can hear is the racing of her heartbeat, almost vibrating in her ears. 

A litany of moans and pleas and blasphemy escape her mouth, as she arches towards his touch, but he maintains his achingly slow pace, pausing only to repeat a motion if it seems to please her. 

He repeats himself over and over again. 

When he finally reaches her hips, having dedicated what feels like centuries to mapping out her abdominal muscles with his tongue, she almost sobs. The fire inside her is a conflagration the likes of which she could not even have imagined. He barely has to touch her, another open-mouthed kiss where she needs him, before she _ignites._

Even then, he doesn’t ease off, and the sensation is so much. Too much. A part of her wants to crawl away even as another, more urgent, part seeks _more_. She writhes on his bed, twisting and straining as he builds her higher and higher with more of those inflaming, infuriating, _maddening_ touches. 

He doesn’t stop until he makes her _scream_ , her blood pounding in her ears, sensation coursing through her in waves of pleasure so intense that it takes her a minute to notice he has withdrawn, his head resting against her thigh, his hands gently stroking as far as he can reach before carefully extricating hers from the tangled grip she has on his hair. 

She doesn’t remember doing that. 

He’s grinning when he looks up at her, still between her legs, like the cat who quite literally got the cream. 

“Hi,” he repeats, soft and sweet. 

“You…” is all she manages to get out, her whole body lax and languorous. “You…” 

“I did say I gained a bit of a reputation at the Circle,” he tells her, moving so he is once again lying beside her, head propped up on one hand, the other lazily stroking her stomach. “If I’d known you’d have this reaction though, I would have offered earlier.” 

Unbidden, she is almost overcome with pointless, empty jealousy for the women who had been his teachers in this regard. 

Then she reaches for him to repay the favour, and he flinches. 

“Ah… I also said my experience was limited, didn’t I? I’ve reached the limit of it, I’m afraid.” 

Her jealousy turns to ice in her veins. 

“None of them…” 

His grin returns. “I had _offers_ , my love. Never took any of them though. I preferred to keep things… simple. Give pleasure. Not take. Taking might have led to things I didn’t want to do.” 

The ice doesn’t thaw, but he moves his hand from her stomach to her cheek, then leans over and kisses her. 

“I want this,” he assures her, resting his forehead against hers. “I want _you_.” 

She breathes deeply, summoning energy into her lethargic muscles, and pushes his shoulder gently, urging him onto his back. He gives her a slightly confused, curious grin, but falls back, settling himself against the pillows. 

There are still the shadows of apprehension in his eyes, a certain tensing to his body that she probably wouldn’t have noticed if she didn’t know him as well as she does, but it does make her think twice. He watches her watching him, his shoulders sinking a little. 

“Closer?” he requests. 

She throws her leg across him, straddling his thighs, her hands lightly resting on his chest. 

“Is this… all right?” 

He sits up, wrapping his arms around her back and dragging her forward, just a little, so he can reach her lips. The kissing seems to soothe him, comfort him, give him courage again. Something to remember in future, she thinks, tucking the notion away. 

Her hips shift against him instinctively and he _gasps_ , pulling back and dropping his head against her shoulder.

“Too much?” she asks. 

He shakes his head, still resting against her, before pressing a kiss against her collarbone. 

“No, it’s perfect. You are _perfect_. Just… wasn’t expecting it.” 

His hands drop to her hips. Not really holding, not controlling, just resting there. 

She runs her fingers through his hair. “We do not have to do anything if you don’t want to.” 

In response, he rolls his hips decisively against hers, his hardness sliding against the most intimate part of her, as he lifts his head to look her in the eye. There’s a challenge in his gaze, one she recognises from sparring matches when she pulls a move that he hasn’t yet learned how to do. 

It usually does not take him long to figure it out. 

“Show me how?” he asks, in exactly the same way he does when they spar. 

She sighs in exasperation, though she means it fondly, and judging by the grin that spreads across his face, he understands. Then she shifts her weight, rising up a little onto her knees. 

He keeps his gaze on hers until she starts to sink down around him, and then his eyes slip shut, fingers tightening on her hips. His pulse races despite her purposefully slow, slow descent, and she leans forward a little, resting her forehead against his. It helps. 

When he is finally buried to the hilt inside her, he opens his eyes, searching her face, desperate for approval, for reassurance. She runs her fingers through his hair again, smiling, and he releases the breath he has been clearly holding. 

“All right?” 

He nods. “Can I…” 

“Whatever you wish.” 

She can’t resist flexing her thighs against his when he starts moving, rolling his hips, matching her torturously slow pace and filling her over and over again. He smiles in response, using his hold on her to change the angle, a little at a time, his eyes watching hers.

When he finds the position that makes her eyes slide shut, she can almost _hear_ his delight. It does wonders for his confidence: his hands become more sure on her body, his thrusts grow stronger and faster, his voice whispers a torrent of compliments and encouragements into her ear. 

She wraps her legs around him, and that just spurs him on more. 

“Beautiful, so _beautiful_ , you have no idea how long I’ve wanted your legs around me. Your _legs_ , Maker, so long and elegant and strong-” 

The rest of whatever he was going to babble is swallowed up as she seals her lips across his, utterly lost in the sensations he’s creating within her as her pleasure builds. His rhythm stutters, too much to focus on, but he doesn’t let it distract him. If anything, the momentary diversion just gives him a new idea. 

He slips his fingers between their bodies, stroking firmly right where she needs him, and she falls apart again. 

When she comes back to herself, she feels his rhythm stutter, his hands clutching at her desperately. She presses her lips against his throat, his jaw, and then whispers into his ear. 

“Let go, my love.” 

She feels him spill inside her, pressing his face into the crook of her neck. 

And then… 

The candles in the holders beside his bed sputter out, and she hears water splashing on the stone floor. Another moment, her heartbeat thrumming in her chest, and she reaches out, fingertips just managing to stretch beyond the canopy over the bed.

Raindrops. 

She can’t help laughing. 

He lifts his head from her now shaking shoulder, an expression of confusion and apprehension on his face, before he looks out to where her hand is still trailing through the rain-shower. Instantly, he groans, dropping his head back. 

“Sorry,” he mutters into her neck, following it with a presumably-meant-to-be-placating kiss that somehow still makes her shiver. “That… that wasn’t meant to happen. It’ll stop… soon. I hope.” 

“Does it happen often?” 

He lifts his head again, shaking it. “No. A few times, when I was younger. I got better at controlling it. But…” 

She brushes his hair back from his face, smiling when he trails off, resting his forehead against hers with a sigh. 

“I love you,” she promises. 

He runs one hand up her spine to cradle the back of her neck, fingers tangling in the hair at her nape. Sticky and sweaty, if his is anything to go by, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. 

“I love you,” he promises. 

Then he pulls back, slipping out of her, sinking onto the pillows behind him with a small groan of satisfaction. She follows, half-collapsing against his chest. Her entire body feels like she has just done a full morning drill in heavy armour: exhausted, but in a good way. 

Replete.

She moves a little, when her body allows her, getting into a more comfortable position. Legs stretched out alongside his, her head pillowed on his shoulder. He catches her hand in his, resting them both over his heart, and she lies there, still and peaceful, listening to the rain fall. 

“Was it… all you hoped?” she asks, eventually. 

“More,” he assures her. “ _Perfect_.” 

An idea crosses her mind. With anyone else, she’d think it was stupid, too fanciful, but with him… 

“Come with me?” 

She pushes herself up on only slightly shaking arms, taking his hand and drawing him off the bed, into the deluge. The water, wherever it has come from, is crisp and fresh and cool against her still-heated skin, and it feels almost perfect. He tips his head back, letting the drops splatter against his face, a peaceful smile on his face, and she steps close, manoeuvring them gently into a dance hold.

“What-“

“You said you wanted there to be dancing on our first night together,” she explains softly.

His smile spreads into that beautiful, incredulous grin that she doesn’t think she could ever get tired of seeing, and he wraps his arm around her waist, holding her even closer to him.

“I don’t know what I did for the Maker to bring you to me, but I thank him every day that he did,” he says, pressing his forehead against hers.

She inclines her head, kissing him instead as they slowly sway and revolve together. A much more sedate dance than the one they had shared on the balcony of the Winter Palace, and her languorous muscles thank her for it.

The rain stops, eventually, as he had promised. She lifts her head, looking up at the ceiling, which shows no sign of the rain, and then looks down at the floor, which very much does.

“Our clothes are soaking wet,” she points out, only half-caring.

He flushes, and she is pleased to note that it goes down a lot further than she had imagined it would.

“I’m sorry. You can borrow one of my shirts. The ones in the armoire should be dry. My breeches might be a little roomy on you, but they’ll do for an emergency. Or I can send someone for fresh clothes for you. Or I’ll go, myself. That’s probably more gentlemanly, isn’t it? You can wait here, I’ll…”

He seems to finally notice her smirk, trailing off.

“It was just an observation. I am not planning on… needing clothes for the rest of the evening,” she tells him. “Just hang them up, they should dry by morning.”

He nods. “You should still… borrow one of my shirts.”

The tone with which he says it suggests he doesn’t mean for the purposes of warmth or modesty, and she raises an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“Well, you don’t _have_ to.”

“You like the idea of me in your clothing?”

He flushes a little more. “I’m sorry. Is that…? It’s probably a little possessive of me. Like I’m claiming you again. I’m not. You are your own person and I love you for that, as much as for anything else. If anything, I’m yours.”

She pushes back from him a little, and he immediately releases her, arms falling to his sides, babble ceasing. Then she walks around the bed to his armoire, pulling open the second drawer. As predicted, it is half-full of his undershirts, fresh and clean and, as he had hoped, dry. She slips one over her head.

The shoulders are a little wider than hers, but not by much, and it falls only a couple of inches longer on her than it does on him. They are much of a size. She turns, and he is still stood where she left him, framed by the posts of the bed, mouth now slightly open.

Extending her hand, she beckons him over, and he rushes to join her.

“I don’t deserve you,” he breathes, skimming his hand down over her arm to take her hand. He lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss against her knuckles before he runs his thumb across her fingers.

The notion confuses her. He is the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste. A brilliant leader and a better mage. All the things he has accomplished, the number of times he has saved the world, and yet, this is what he believes.

“They will say one of two things about me,” she muses. “That I stood at the Inquisitor’s side, his protector and lover. That it was meant to be. Or they will say I was led from the path of faith by the wiles of a madman.”

A confused, slightly startled look crosses his face for a brief moment before he seems to swallow it down.

“I don’t care what ‘they’ say. What do you believe?”

She smiles, lifting her free hand to cradle his jaw, stroking her thumb across his cheekbone. “I believe you are a faithful man. I believe you are the Herald of Andraste, even if you do not. Beyond that, I believe only that you are capable of anything, and it frightens me.”

“I don’t mean to frighten you.”

Sighing, she kisses him. “Power is always frightening, my love, and you are the most powerful person I know. That I have ever met. But despite this, I love you. I want you. I want us to be together. Whatever happens.”

He smiles uncertainly. “Now it sounds like _you’re_ asking me to marry you.”

“Not yet,” she tells him, echoing his own words. “Certainly not here.”

“Good. I’d… I know it’s boring and traditional, but _I’d_ rather like to be the one who does the asking, when I do, if that’s agreeable to you.”

She nods.

His smile brightens.

“I don’t know about you, but I think… some food and wine next? Got to keep our strength up.”

She would disagree, but her knees still feel a little weak, so she nods.

“I hope no one is expecting us for dinner,” he notes, grinning.

The cups, previously half-full of wine, are now fully full of water, and he tips them onto the still wet floor with a roguish grin before refilling them from the thankfully corked bottle. The tray had not been uncovered either, thank the Maker. She lifts the lid, expecting the worst, congealed stew or something of the sort, but only a large heaped plate of bread, sliced cheese and meat greet her eyes. Hearty, but in no danger of spoiling.

She can’t help laughing. “I do not think _Varric_ is expecting us any time soon, at the very least.”

He looks over her shoulder, frowning a little, but makes an affirmative noise in the back of his throat either way. She picks up the plate, glancing about the room. The sofa is soaked, the desk drenched, the floor flooded. Josephine and Leliana are going to have _fits_ when they find out that all their carefully written reports are now papier-mâché, though hopefully Cullen might see the funny side of it. The fire is reduced to a smouldering ember, but a little stoking and it will be fine. The candles too can be relit.

The only dry place in the room is… the bed. Protected from the storm by its wooden canopy and thick curtains. She takes his hand and draws him back to it.

They are eating in companionable, lazy quiet, when there is a sound on the balcony. A… very distinctive sound. Both their heads snap up.

“Was that-“

“-an arrow?”

He tries to get up and she lays a hand on his shoulder, halting him in his tracks.

“ _I_ will go and check,” she tells him, hoping she will not have to make it a command.

Though it is unlikely that someone skilled or connected enough to reach the battlements or the courtyard garden would try to assassinate the Inquisitor by loosing an arrow at his balcony, it is not without reason that it could be a lure. Better for her to be baited than him.

In either case, she stays low, carefully opening the door (she must have a word with Cullen about reinforcing the stained glass), and creeping out onto the balcony. The arrow is lodged perfectly in the mortar between two stones in the pillar to the left of the door.

A highly skilled shot not to have broken the glass.

Or very unlucky, depending on the target.

It has a roll of parchment tied around it, so she pulls it out of the mortar with a grunt of effort, bringing it back inside. Brennan, waiting just inside the door, plucks it out of her hands and removes the parchment, handing the arrow back to her.

It is a standard arrow, nothing special about it. The fletching is a dull grey, nothing to distinguish it from any other arrow she might see in Skyhold.

Brennan laughs beside her, and she turns toward him.

“What is it? A threat?”

He schools his expression into one of mock sincerity. “I believe we have been… discovered.”

“What?”

He hands over the parchment, and she reads the words upon it.

“Congratulations on the sex! Didn’t know you had it in you. Well, now you’ve had it in her! PS, there is a puddle in the war room. Brilliant!”

“Sera’s handiwork, I believe. Turn it over.”

On the other side is a crudely drawn sketch of a naked couple; the woman bent over with the man behind her. Charming.

She is torn between amusement and mortification. If Sera knows, the whole fortress will know within the day, if they do not already.

“How did she…?”

He smooths an errant piece of hair behind her ear. “You were not exactly… quiet, my love. And sound carries, even up here. Besides, Sera has as many spies as Leliana, I’m certain. The fact she didn’t draw us in the correct position suggests none of them _saw_ us, at least.”

She sighs wearily, and he smiles.

“I’m sorry. What do you want?”

It’s a big question. There is a difference between the Inquisition knowing they are together, and knowing that someone, at least, heard her screaming in pleasure in the Inquisitor’s quarters. At least, perhaps, it will put paid to the idea of her becoming Divine.

But it is a question for the morning.

“I want you to take me back to bed, my love.”

**Author's Note:**

> MAJOR thanks to my darling ooachilliaoo, who not only encouraged me to write the smut, but also fixed it for me. It is her wedding anniversary tomorrow (19/09), so this is a... strangely appropriate sort of anniversary gift. ♥


End file.
